


To Shame Hell

by Tah the Trickster (TahTheTrickster)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Masturbation, PWP, Pining, Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-17 22:48:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10603884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TahTheTrickster/pseuds/Tah%20the%20Trickster
Summary: This is just pathetic: curled up on her couch, alone, dressed only in a comfortable pair of boy briefs and the contraband hoodie as a low-budget monster movie plays on the holoscreen in front of her, unwatched. All because she hasn't seen her friend—because that's all Amélie is and will ever be, a friend—in a few weeks for her ever-intensifying ballet rehearsals. That she's so lonely as to don a stolen sweatshirt just because the scent of Amélie's shampoo and perfume clings to the fabric is just... well, pathetic.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Heaven Knows](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10594005) by [Xhuuya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xhuuya/pseuds/Xhuuya). 



> xhuuya and i are terrible people im so sorry

> _ "All men have secret thoughts that would shame hell."—Robert Louis Stevenson _

Angela can't really recall when Amélie's hoodie came into her possession. She thinks that, perhaps, it was left behind during one of their occasional movie nights at her flat; or, maybe, she grabbed it by mistake after watching one of Amélie's ballet rehearsals. Whatever it was, it's sat, clumsily folded up on the back of her living room chair for the better part of a fortnight, waiting for her to remember to take it back. And that is where it stayed. Untouched. Unmoved.

It's definitely never made its way under her palms as Angela absently curled her fingers into the soft fabric, wondering how Amélie's powerful shoulders would feel under it. It's  _ absolutely _ never wound up discarded in her unmade bed after a night of being clutched greedily in her arms as she slept. And it's  _ most certainly _ never found its way over her bare torso, the fabric so soft and warm against her skin, nuzzled into the fleece that smelled  _ so much like her— _

_ Schieße. _ Whatever. She'll wash it before she returns it.

In the meantime, however, this is just pathetic: curled up on her couch, alone, dressed only in a comfortable pair of boy briefs and the contraband hoodie as a low-budget monster movie plays on the holoscreen in front of her, unwatched. All because she hasn't seen her friend—because that's all Amélie is and will ever be, a  _ friend _ —in a few weeks for her ever-intensifying ballet rehearsals. That she's so lonely as to don a stolen sweatshirt just because the scent of Amélie's shampoo and perfume clings to the fabric is just... well,  _ pathetic. _

Angela grumbles to herself, burrowing down into the soft, warm fabric and wrapping her arms about her knees. She feels sure she had more  _ friends  _ than just Amélie, but for now she can't think of another human's presence that she's even willing to tolerate. Her hand is halfway to her holovid before she recalls that Amélie is one of those normal people who will decidedly  _ not _ appreciate a friendly "what's up?" text at four in the morning. She huffs and puts it back down.

_ Pathetic, _ she thinks again, scowling. She stands quickly, shutting off the awful film as she slinks to her bedroom. Alone. Even though the scent clings to every inch of the hoodie.

She realizes the downside of this particularly cloying diversion the instant she lies down. If she thought having the hoodie on was distracting enough while pretending to watch a movie, it's triply so in the silence of the early dawn, in the warmth and comfort of her bed. Angela curses lowly and viciously. It must be listed in a torture guidebook somewhere to be fully enveloped in your lover's scent while alone in your own damn bed—

Soft blue eyes shut sharply, heat stirring sharply in her cheeks and pooling between her thighs.  _ Not that she and I are lovers, of course. _

Friends. And only that. Because the woman is  _ married, dammit, _ and to even wish for something more from her is disgusting, and immoral on every level. Angela already has to deal with her body's physical reactions when she's anywhere near the dancer—the way that heat blooms in her face and chest every time Amélie smiles at her, the way her breath catches when Amélie kisses her flushed cheeks in greeting, the jolts of electric sensation that skirt over her skin when Amélie's fingers brush her skin... She doesn't need Amélie any deeper under her skin than she's already allowed her to get.

The stubborn, insistent thought doesn't do a damn thing for the hastening pulse she can already feel at the juncture of her thighs.

"Christ," she mutters, irate. Whatever. Any sort of distraction to her current state would be welcome now. A physical one—with the bonus of stress relief—is as good a distraction as anything else.

She must admit, though, that dragging her thumb over the steel barbell nipple piercings through the fabric of Amélie's hoodie only seems to worsen the matter. Angela huffs softly, turning onto her side. She palms her breast only briefly before tugging rough at a pierced nipple, hoping the pain-edged pleasure might help focus her thoughts. The shock of pain succeeds only in drawing a sharp hiss from between her teeth and slicking the cotton between her thighs even further.

Angela's eyes clench shut as her own hand slips under the hoodie, grazing a trembling inner thigh briefly before sliding up, finding tilted hips and glistening curls waiting beneath the waistband of her briefs. She can't stifle her gasp at the touch. She's beyond oversensitive already with only the scarcest of touches.

_ Oh, this is so wrong. _

Not that it stops her from slowly stroking herself, spreading inner lips to feel her own wetness coating her fingertips, brushing her slick fingers over her aching clit, and  _ god _ what she wouldn't give for Amélie to be the one stroking her like this...

" _ Fuck, _ " Angela hisses out, the mental image of Amélie's long, graceful fingers buried within her sending a filthy jolt straight between her thighs. Her hips spasm sharply and she relents, sinking two fingers inside, hips lifting against her own hand. But she can't think of Amélie. Not now, not like—not like  _ this, _ with her sprawled out in bed, finger-fucking herself, Amélie's hoodie sticking to her heated skin, her scent just under Angela's nose—

The second jolt is more insistent than the first, stronger, and Angela gasps aloud to feel her cunt contract greedily around her fingers.

God, if she closes her eyes like this she can nearly  _ see  _ Amélie above her, that light, sensual perfume bathing her pale throat as she leans down, bracing a hand on the mattress to prop herself up, those bright brown eyes watching her every reaction, her lips (swollen and gloss smeared from kissing) forming filthy little fragments about how  _ fucking good _ Angela feels, her other hand working relentlessly between Angela's trembling thighs...

The thought makes Angela force her hand to slow, to draw it out... Amélie loves nothing more than a good repartee, a light back-and-forth... Angela shudders, relenting, stroking herself with a featherlight touch even as her body throbs,  _ aches _ to be filled. She's fairly certain that that's precisely how Amélie would touch her. Just as teasing in bed as she is in life.

Angela can practically imagine Amélie's soft, full lips brushing over the shell of her ear, purring softly at how wet and eager Angela is for her, and the thought is enough to make Angela moan aloud—a faint, trembling noise, all but deafening in the silence of her bedroom.

She wonders how Amélie would moan for her.

She wonders how Amélie would feel under her eager fingertips—how her waiting body would taste under her lips and tongue.

Angela curses softly. A single finger sinks back into her aching body, just to take the edge off. Amélie's name lingers on her lips, quavering, just barely held back behind grit teeth, far more tempting and far more damning than any fruit of the tree. She can't. This is wrong. Fucked up. Immoral—

She wonders how her own name would sound on Amélie's deft tongue in orgasm.

The mental image slicks her fingers immediately with a jolt of feverish  _ heat _ , blood surely alight with sickening desire as she takes her own two fingers easily up to the knuckle. A groan whips out from between gritted teeth as Angela fucks herself slow and deep, sparks lighting behind her eyelids. God, imagining the already beautiful woman shaking in the throes of ecstasy is nearly more than she can bear. Those gorgeous brown eyes clenched shut in rapture, bottom lip held fast between her teeth, cheeks flushed, trembling, trembling...

" _ Amélie _ ," Angela gasps out, and her resolve crumbles in an instant. "Amélie— _ fuck, Amélie— _ "

Her free hand, clenched in her rumpled bedsheets, looses immediately and slides up beneath Amélie's hoodie. Her fingertips trace lazy circles over taut, sweat-slick abdominals for only a moment before gliding higher, toying relentlessly with her piercings, alternating between dragging her thumb over the barbells and tugging at her nipples, imagining how fucking good Amélie's silken lips would feel against the oversensitive flesh...

She takes a third finger easily, hips lifting sharply to grind into her own palm, nearly too overstimulated to touch her own clit directly. Amélie always did like to push her to the edge in their teasing banter. Angela swears softly to think that she might be so cruel as to keep her on the edge like this, too.

" _ Please, _ " she finds herself breathing into the hot, still night air. "Amélie—fuck,  _ fuck, please— _ "

Her fingers curl sharply even as her hips grind up into her palm again, and all Angela can think of is how fucking  _ smug _ Amélie would be to know how easily she could make her come for her and then she  _ does _ and her cunt contracts  _ hard _ around her fingers as Angela chokes out Amélie's name, breaking off in a heady moan and trailing away with soft breaths of " _ god, yes, please, like that, yes _ " as her blood ignites within her, heart hammering, vision hazy and flickering white, too much, too much,  _ still not enough... _

For a long moment afterward, Angela simply stares up at the ceiling, letting her breaths slow and return to normalcy. As though any  _ part  _ of that was  _ normal _ , or—hell, even  _ acceptable. _ She's still wearing Amélie's  _ hoodie _ for chrissake. This is beyond wrong, venturing deep into the realm of  _ morally repugnant _ .

The shame hits her all at once, a visceral mass sitting heavy on her chest and choking her out. Her eyes sting horribly, and she blinks rapidly in a fruitless effort to clear them. A hoarse chuckle bubbles up from her throat unbidden, and the dam breaks: she laughs until tears are streaming down her face and the laughter has fractured into broken sobs. God help her. Fallen for a married woman. A  _ happily married _ woman. A woman who will surely recoil from her if she ever realizes.

The black acidic mass in her chest twists sharply, forcing her earlier fantasies— _ filthy, depraved _ —back to the forefront of her mind. Angela bites back another convulsion in her throat, and she isn't sure whether it's a bitter laugh or a hollow sob.

Even in her mind's eye the graceful hand brushing against the most vulnerable parts of her still bears that damned ring.


End file.
